excerpt from chapter 1) I was born on the twenty-third of June 1960, during a midsummer’s eve thunderstorm. Mother resented me even while I was still in the womb, because—as she constantly reminded me and told everybody else—I lay on her spine for the entire pregnancy.
I crippled her, she said, by causing her severe sciatica. Although the
doctors tried several times to reposition me in utero, I always returned
to lying on her spine. It was one of her favorite stories. ~

During my recovery sessions with a therapist, I asked her why, out of
all my horrific memories, I always became the most emotional over a
silly, insignificant image: Mother holding my tiny hand as we crossed a
busy street. The therapist said the image was immensely significant
because it was the only time in my life that Mother actually protected
me. I had clung to that single memory of her being a true mother to me,
if only for a few seconds, because that was all that I had. Even now, as I write this, tears well up in my eyes and heart for what could have been . . . what should have been. ~

(excerpt from chapter 11)
I opened the door to the balcony and stepped into the bitter winter
air. I looked over the wall at the sparkling concrete nine floors below.
I dragged a small table to the front of the balcony and climbed upon
it, shivering with cold and fear. Crouching there, I waited for the area
below to clear of people. My tears felt oddly hot as they ran into my mouth. I imagined
my twisted, broken limbs and cold white face in a pool of frozen blood.
Voices inside my head goaded me: Just do it! Go on, end your shitty
life! Just do it! Just do it! And I wanted to do it . . . I looked
up at the clear, black-velvet sky, my tears freezing on my cheeks. The
crescent moon and twinkling stars were so beautiful, so astoundingly
beautiful. The table wobbled so violently from my shivering that I got
scared and climbed down. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t jump. I was too
pathetic and weak even to throw myself off a balcony. So I decided
to do something else instead. I removed all my clothes. I would die as I
had been born: naked, and in the fetal position. I would fall asleep up
here and freeze to death. Lying down on the rough, icy floor of the
balcony, I curled myself up and waited for eternal sleep. ~

(excerpt from chapter 19)

The very first painting was of my mother. After I finished the canvas, I
stared at it until a sense of revulsion and disdain replaced the
indifference I had held for this woman for so many years. During that
time I had kept my feelings in check because I had such conflicted
emotions. Yes, Mother did do terrible things to me—but she was my
mother. Now I had placed my deepest and truest feelings about my
mother on canvas, rendering her as a serpentine form with a gaping maw,
insanely glaring eyes, and a clenched fist. For the first time I saw
Mother in her true colors: blue to depict anger and power; red to
represent pain. That was all Mother meant to me. Her portrait displayed
no beauty whatsoever, no love. What stared out at me was pure hatred.
After that I decided to paint everyone who had ever abused me, and to
depict how the abuse made me feel. I would become the photographer of my
own life story. ~

I was no longer painting only for
myself—I was painting for those who could not express their own pain in
words or images. I was a voice for them, a release from their anguished
silence. And the experience was as cathartic for them as it had been for
me. My art is meant to appeal to those who can identify and connect
with it, and thereby feel less isolated. In the realm of sexual abuse,
just knowing that you are not alone helps tremendously. And realizing
that what happened to you is not your fault aids in your recovery
process. Survivors say that I inspire them . . . but the truth is, they
inspire me...

A very powerful and moving work that addresses the two most extreme
poles of the human condition. You will learn of a woman who overcame
extreme acts of evil. And used her pain to create something beautiful.
It is a testament to the power of the human mind. And a warning about
the ability of the most evil among us. I hope that everybody will read
this book as I have, because people need to know that the world isn't
perfect, and that bad things happen. Bus also how strong we can be, and how much we can overcome.

A good friend highly recommended this book and lent me her copy. I,
unwittingly, started reading at bedtime. I thought I would just read a
few chapters and go to bed. Well, that didn't happen. Try as I might, I
couldn't put it down, because I so invested I had to see what happened
next. Three hours later, when I finished the book, I was too stunned to
sleep. (It was worth the sleep deprivation!) Suzzan's story is thought
provoking and an emotional experience that one cannot soon forget. Yet,
in the end, it is a powerful one that inspires inner strength, courage
and healing. I have since purchased my own copy and will be doing some
recommending and lending of my own. Also, if you have the chance to
check out the author's artwork, do it. She is amazingly talented!

Reading Suzzan's story reminded me that if Dante (were alive), he
would have to amend the Inferno to include such cruelty and abuse that
Suzzan Blac had to endure as its own level of Hell.Her inner child's strength and resilience is what I celebrated by the end of the book.Art therapy is the greatest tool any child (or adult) could utilize to "draw" one out of the internal n external prisons.I would say it's a difficult read, but not in the traditional sense.It's difficult because I couldn't step back in time and help this brave child.I recommend this book to be read to show how one can EMPOWER themselves no matter what life hands them.Art supports sanity.Suzzan Blac is proof of how a soul can triumph!

I had become acquainted with Suzzan's incredible works of art through
what she has shared on Facebook, but I knew little of who she was or her
tortured past. When I got news that this book was to finally be
released, I eagerly bought a copy and awaited its arrival. I had no idea
what I was in for

From the very beginning, it reads like almost
like a horror novel. Each new atrocity revealed page by page weighed so
much on me that I didn't want to believe so much evil could possibly
happen to a person, much less a child. But the stark honesty and
undeniable soul in the voice of the narrative assures that the victim,
our hero and humble narrator of the book, is intensely real and
completely human. At times, I hadn't the constitution to keep reading...
the accounting of abuse became too much and I shed more than a few
tears knowing that not only did this happen to Suzzan, but it IS
happening to far too many children the world over.

But just when
things become the darkest for her, Suzzan pulls herself up by her
bootstraps. There has never been a better example of 'what doesn't kill
you, makes you stronger' as she proves herself to be unbelievably
strong, and especially so when she is blessed with children of her own;
children she showers with love and affection, and protects unfailingly
from the evils which she endured.

Suzzan is an impeccable artist.
But more than that, she is a survivor, a hero, a lifeboat and beacon of
hope for all who have suffered the kinds of abuse that she has. Her art
is simply a tool to helping fellow victims and exposing to the world
great evils which have for far too long been kept behind closed doors.

'The Rebirth of Suzzan Blac' could not be a more apt and appropriate title for this triumph of a book.